


Galad's Grace

by GaladedridXXX



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-08 07:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16425101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaladedridXXX/pseuds/GaladedridXXX
Summary: The world is pointed at the Last Battle, but Galad is distracted by dreams of strong men and their bodies. Is this the influence of ta'veren, or is Galad's own lust really so powerful? This story picks up after ToM and features Galad's possible sexual adventures during and after AMoL. Slash.The story can work as a narrative or a series of one shots, and the chapters can slide right into WoT canon since they don't alter the story in any way. Galad will be paired with a variety of characters, including our ta'veren.





	1. Parley With a Wolf

With Byar and Bornhald on one side and Aybara’s wife and liegemen on the other, the parley was getting nowhere.

 

Galad had to work to keep the frustrations out of his manner. At every suggestion **—** by Aybara or himself **—** Byar protested, with proclamations that Aybara was a murderer and Shadowspawn. Galad was not so convinced; not after seeing Perrin Aybara deal with his own people. His wife, the Saldaean woman, protested as fiercely as Byar to her husband, and the Ghealdanian Queen fought almost as valiantly to keep him away from the Children. Even the striking First of Mayene supported Aybara.

 

Amidst the protestations, Galad locked eyes with Aybara. They both saw the inefficacy of the meeting. Galad almost saw a kinship of spirit with the man; of all those beneath the pavilion, it seemed they two alone knew what had to be done. Aybara had demonstrated much with his insistence on parley and diplomacy over war. At first, Galad had listened to Byar, interpreting the requests as a devious manipulation. But sitting here across from the man, looking into his wolf’s eyes, Galad saw only the single-mindedness that he himself was all too familiar with.

 

Aybara wanted only to reach Tarmon Gai’don. He wanted his men back, and his supplies, and he wanted to leave this place—but Galad was in his way. Galad could not be sure if the man before him would fight for the Light or the Shadow, but his determination reminded Galad of his own, and it sparked… _something_ … inside him.

 

It was not just frustration that Galad hid during that meeting. He glanced at the First again, hoping to disguise his flushed face, but he was certain Aybara knew. _How could he know? I didn’t even know until now._ But Aybara saw that something in him—perhaps the same thing Galad saw in the other man—and that would be enough to give away his advantage. Galad spoke, quieting the pavilion.

 

“You must see we are at an impasse, Aybara. I know you cannot give yourself over before your own people. Perhaps I cannot be impartial before mine. Should you and I settle this alone, then? In my tent? I vow that no harm will come to you.”

 

“No, husband. You will not leave that camp alive,” Aybara’s wife locked eyes with Child Byar. She was keen to note Byar’s zeal, or perhaps just familiar. She had been in the Two Rivers. Was she really the daughter of a great captain?

 

Aybara studied him for a moment, placing his hand on that of his wife, who’d gripped his forearm at Galad’s statement. “Peace, Faile. If this is just you and I, Damodred…” Faile opened her mouth to protest, but Aybara continued. “What’s to keep you from killing me? My men were quick to inform me that you’d killed Eamon Valda. I may not carry a sword, but I know what the Heron means.” His wife nodded.

 

“Killing you dishonorably would scar myself and the Children irreparably. Some may stoop so low—some have—but not I. You have my oath that you and your men will see tomorrow so long as you make no move against us. You can bring a retinue if you wish. These… Asha’man, perhaps, and the Aes Sedai. But I feel further negotiations must be between you and I alone.”

 

Again, the Saldaean woman seemed eager to protest. In fact, they all did—Byar and Bornhald included. But Galad had set his mind, and he’d done it without their influence. He knew he had to face Aybara alone, and Aybara knew it too. Galad only feared what he might reveal without witnesses; there was no First of Mayene in his tent to disguise his affections.

 

Aybara nodded, quickly silencing the crowd. Shock, or his alleged _ta’veren_ nature? Some Shadowspawn trick? No, not that. This was an air of command, of authority.

 

“I’ll go.” It was said plainly, with no room for doubt. He turned to his wife, speaking quieter. Galad barely heard; he thought the other Children must not have. “I trust him, Faile. Light, but I do. He’s… different, somehow, from the rest. He won’t break his word.” The woman seemed annoyed, but she responded to his firmness. She was certainly a Saldaean woman.

 

“To my camp, then,” Galad said, placing an edge in his voice to hide the sudden dryness he’d found in his mouth. _Light, am I going to do what I think I am?_ Can _I even do something like that?_

 

Nodding, Aybara selected his men and women. Galad commanded all but a few Children to remain at the pavilion—he wouldn’t put it past Byar to try something, even with Galad’s promise; the army, too, he left in an act of faith—and they were off.

 

* * *

 

Aybara entered the tent behind Galad, a Child closing it behind him. The same Child had made sure it was lit before they entered.

 

Galad turned to face Aybara, standing before his bed. He had a small desk that was likely more appropriate for the occasion, but he needed the man to feel comfortable. He quelled thoughts of why else he might want to be near the bed. He cleared his throat, hoping the other man took it as a symbol of brevity and formality rather than embarrassment, and prayed that the lantern light didn’t reveal the warmth in his face.

 

“I came here to find an agreement, and I’m not leaving until I do,” Aybara said in that gruff voice. His eyes brooked no argument, and though Galad was the taller, the golden-eyed man seemed to fill the tent. Galad found himself ready to give in, to offer something to him. Was this the effect of a _ta’veren_? Or were these Galad’s own feelings coming to the surface?

 

Galad rested his hand on his sword. A reminder, he told himself. He knew he was dangerous; Aybara should, too. Yet he knew there was another reason. A hand on the sword was… suggestive, to say the least. _Light! This isn’t me!_ But it was, now, Galad knew. Aybara had seen him, had _known_ him. There was no hiding his flushed face, his nervous voice. Light, but there was no hiding his _need_. Galad felt a warmth within himself, felt his heart beating murderously in his chest, and knew there was no turning back. He would have Aybara in this tent.

 

Aybara’s mouth twitched as Galad flushed further. They both knew what was happening. Galad didn’t know how, but they did. He felt a twitch below his belt. He closed his eyes to steady himself, gripping the sword for support.

 

“I—” Galad began, his voice full of poorly masked lust, but Aybara had caught his wrist, stepping closer to him. Galad opened his eyes, releasing his sword. Apparently, he’d drawn it slightly.

 

Aybara was breathing heavily, a symptom of his readiness to strike again should Galad threaten him. Galad’s own breath came heavy not from exertion, but from desire. He met the man’s eyes, those eyes that reached into him and knew every intimacy. A wolf’s eyes. Suddenly Galad saw before him not a man, but a beast. He saw in Aybara the same rawness that he now felt. His own inner beast, his own desire, responded to Aybara’s.

 

He kissed him. It was tense at first—Aybara seemed more surprised than Galad had thought—but soon the other man gave way. He still held to Galad’s wrist on one side, and now grabbed roughly at Galad’s hip on the other. Galad poured his own passion and lust into the kiss, and felt Aybara’s in kind. It was wet, and rough, and messy—not at all like Galad—but it was right.

 

 _Light, what am I doing!?_ He knew this wasn’t out of the realm of what he might do—he’d thought of men often, though it had once surprised him—but this was a negotiation! The Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light couldn’t handle matters of such import this way!

 

And yet now, he did. He pushed away his thoughts, allowing himself to get lost in Perrin Aybara’s touch. The man’s lips were insistent—not scrambling for Galad’s, but playing firmly against them, their purpose plain. Aybara’s hand had found purchase beneath Galad’s coat and shirt, massaging his hip. Galad broke the kiss, needing a moment for breath, and met the man’s eyes again.

 

There were no words, no actions, and yet there was a struggle. Aybara’s eyes probed Galad, alert, and Galad knew his own offered no resistance, glazed over as they must be by his lust. He moved to reconnect with the larger man, only for Aybara to grip his belt, undoing it deftly. Galad’s lips quirked into a small smile and he worked to remove his shirt.

 

Galad was down to his smallclothes before either man worked to remove Aybara’s clothing, interrupted as they were by their kisses. Aybara himself still had his shirt on—only half unbuttoned by Galad, who’d had to touch and admire the man’s strong chest, furred with curly hair—when he apparently lost his patience, grabbing Galad and taking him into a fuller kiss, pulling him close. Galad’s slim, hard muscles met Perrin’s broad chest, his bare skin pressed against the other man’s shirt.  Galad was the sword, slender and graceful, Aybara the hammer, strong and forceful.

 

They parted again, gasping for breath, yet remained close enough to feel each other’s heat. Galad could feel Aybara’s arousal, now, and his own erection was met with little resistance by his smallclothes. Reaching between them, he massaged Aybara’s shaft, impressed but not surprised by the girth he found. Aybara let out a low groan, resting his head on Galad’s shoulder, and Galad continued his ministrations.

 

Aybara began kissing Galad’s neck, working the skin there as Galad worked between Perrin’s legs. Galad could feel the damp on his smallclothes against the tip of his manhood, a sign of his arousal. He hissed as Perrin nipped at his neck, but smiled at the pleasure he found in the other man. Soon, he moved to Aybara’s belt, working to remove it and the man’s pants.

 

Perrin grabbed Galad’s wrists, removing them from his belt. He stopped sucking at Galad’s neck, which earned a light whimper from Galad, and looked into his eyes, breathing heavily. Suddenly, he spun Galad around, holding his wrists behind him, and bent Galad down over the bed. Galad had a slight panic at the man’s force—years of combat training had made him wary—but a far stronger instinct told him that what Aybara was doing was _right_.

 

He heard Aybara fiddling with his belt behind him, finishing what Galad had started. He looked back as the man pulled down his pants and smallclothes, revealing the massive member Galad had been rubbing. Now Aybara took it in his own hand, gently massaging himself as he smirked down at Galad, face down on his own bed. Galad flushed in embarrassment, and Aybara reached forward, removing Galad’s smallclothes and exposing his rear. Galad took the opportunity to spread his legs, exposing himself further to the hulking man.

 

Perrin bent down over Galad, his cock sliding between his cheeks and his chest pressed tight against Galad’s back. He gripped Galad’s hair, pulling his head back for a kiss. Galad pressed back into the man, trying to get more contact with his manhood, trying to be filled, to be _complete_. Aybara pushed his head against the mattress, nipping Galad’s ear before gruffly whispering, “How much?”

 

“Wh-what?” Galad asked, catching his breath.

 

“How much do you want it? How much is it worth?” Aybara’s breath came rough in Galad’s ear, the heat from his body seeping into him. Galad moved, frustrated, trying to rock himself against Perrin’s shaft, but the other man held him firm.

 

“Please,” Galad breathed, “everything. Please. Your army can go, I just—I _need_ it.”

 

Perrin smiled, then drew back. Galad frowned at the loss of the man, but soon gasped in shock and delight. Aybara’s tongue worked the cleft of Galad’s ass, probing into and loosening him. Galad gripped the sheets beneath him, letting out a small laugh at the pleasure. Light! This was something new.

 

Aybara spread Galad’s cheeks wide, going as deep as he could. Galad could feel the same intense passion in this kiss as he had their others, but the sensation…! It was unlike anything Galad had felt before, and he lost himself, ceding all control to the other man.

 

Soon Aybara slowed and withdrew, and Galad himself was slightly relieved at the break, though he felt the loss strongly. He looked back at Aybara again, and found the man staring at him, cock in hand. He massaged it slowly, back and forth, his eyes drinking Galad in. Galad reached between his own legs.

 

“Light, but you’re gorgeous,” Aybara said. “You drive women wild, I’m sure. But I can have you in a way they never will.”

 

Galad let out a whimper, Perrin’s speech eliciting it as much as his own ministrations. Aybara cocked his head, gesturing, and Galad scrambled back, his face before Aybara’s shaft. Tentatively, he took it into his mouth, glancing to the other for approval.

 

Perrin’s head rolled back and he let out another low groan, and Galad continued his work. The other man’s girth was far too great to take in, but then, that wasn’t his goal. He rubbed himself as he worked on Aybara, then reached further down between his legs where his entrance was still moist. He explored it for a moment before slipping a finger in, and was delighted by the experience. He redoubled his efforts on Perrin, hoping to bring the man pleasure but focusing on moisture above all else.

 

After losing himself in both ends of his work for a few minutes, Galad reached deeper and discovered something that forced him to remove himself from Aybara’s length. He gasped at the sensation, rubbing his finger against the spot again. He could feel pressure below his manhood, forcing it seemingly to grow and leak even more, but the sheer pleasure outweighed anything he’d felt before. He withdrew his finger, breathing heavily and fighting a smile, and glanced up at Aybara.

 

The man was grinning down at him. He bent down, kissing Galad, before taking him in his strong arms and returning him to his prior position on the bed. Galad stretched himself against the surface, feeling the muscles tighten in his chest and back as his ground against the soft sheets, and presented himself to Perrin. He no longer felt shame in the situation; this was his most natural state, it was where he belonged: with his legs and ass spread and a stronger man above him.

 

Perrin bent down, giving Galad a few good licks to re-lubricate him. Galad shivered, and soon the tongue was replaced by the head of Aybara’s shaft, massive against his puckered entrance. “Are you sure?” Perrin asked, and Galad rolled his hips back in response, pushing himself against the man’s cock. He nodded vigorously, biting his lip in anticipation.

 

Aybara didn’t need further encouragement. He pressed himself forward, slowly entering Galad. He was unsure at first due to the pain—his finger hadn’t felt like this, nor had Aybara’s tongue—but soon Aybara was deep enough that Galad felt only a vague pressure rather than the pain of resistance. It was still uncomfortable, but being filled by another man felt _right_.

 

Galad wiggled back against Aybara, trying to loosen himself and give Aybara more room. His head was low against the bed, his ass slightly raised to meet Aybara’s hips. He felt surrendered, submissive; he felt free. Galad saw the world very clearly, and he rarely ceded control, but this… in this, Galad felt more himself than he ever had.

 

Finally Aybara reached the hilt, filling Galad completely. Both men groaned, getting accustomed to the pressure. Soon Perrin pulled back slowly, not quite pulling all the way out before he pushed in again. Slowly at first, which Galad appreciated, but steadily increasing his pace. Both men’s breath came hard, now, and Galad felt the bed rocking as he gripped the sheets. There was still the discomfort, but there was occasionally a brush of that spot Galad had discovered, and that sent him into ecstasy.

 

Eventually Galad grew accustomed to the movements, and Aybara moved faster and harder, gripping Galad’s hips. He’d have bruises later, not to mention the mark on his neck. Light, he was being branded like property! _Is this how he lays with his wife?_ Galad thought. Best not to think on that. Both men were grunting, Perrin’s the steady masculine sounds of a man in control, Galad’s higher-pitched, the irregular moans of one lost in ecstasy.

 

Perrin released Galad’s left hip, leaning forward and gripping his shoulder instead. As he moved, Galad felt him slide deeper, filling him completely. He whimpered, incoherent. He could feel the sticky webs of fluid beneath him, the pre-arousal elicited only by the other man’s touch. Galad was strong, his muscles well-carved, but Aybara was a force of nature, and he was the larger, stronger man. He pinned Galad beneath him, and Galad offered no resistance.

 

With his left side held down and his body flush against the other man’s, his hole tight around Aybara, Galad finally reached between his legs, brushing his shaft lightly. Even that was a strong sensation with the other man filling him! He took himself in hand, using the slick he’d released to lubricate his motions, and massaged in rhythm with Aybara’s thrusts.

 

He felt the pleasure mounting, the sheer thrill of being taken by another man and knowing nothing but delight. Aybara released Galad’s shoulder, taking his hips and pulling Galad against him again and again. Soon he slowed, and Galad recognized the haggardness of his breath. He was close—they both were.

 

Galad thrust himself back against Aybara, taking his entire length in an instant. Both men moaned—a low groan from the top, a sharp yelp from the bottom. Perrin shifted, positioning himself above Galad, his rod facing down rather than along Galad as it had before. Galad gasped, his pitch high, as he felt Aybara against that spot from before, that place where ecstasy rested. He had to release his cock at the suddenness of the heightened sensations.

 

“I’m—!” Galad said, barely coherent and unable to finish his sentence besides. Aybara grunted, thrusting fully into him, and Galad was finished. Thick ropes spilled from beneath him, coating his sheets and Galad’s own chest in his release. Again and again, along with Perrin’s thrusts, he released, until nothing but the sensations were left. Galad gasped in ecstasy, his cock twitching still, his body rocking against his bed and his seed. His hands were tight in the sheets beneath him, his face pressed into the mattress. Still he trembled, the man above him making no concessions.

 

Soon Galad stopped twitching, his orgasm complete, and lost himself in the feel of Aybara’s length. He smiled, reveling in his joy. Aybara was close, he knew. Curious, he tightened his ass around the other man, who let out a groan to Galad’s delight. Perrin slowed his thrusts and Galad readied himself to be bred, to take the man’s seed. Indeed, after two final thrusts, Aybara groaned his ecstasy and released into Galad. He felt the warmth seeping into him, the other man’s member throbbing and twitching as Galad’s own had. Galad’s hole was stretched to contain the other man, whose ropes of release were still coming. Soon Aybara began moving again, his low sultry breaths replacing the groans. Both men shuddered at the feeling, each tender from their recent release.

 

Finally, Aybara withdrew, leaving Galad feeling empty. He whimpered at the loss—he was still hard, if too sensitive for anything productive—but the other man lifted him up, sitting him down on the bed. Galad sat before the other man, looking up into his yellow eyes. They kissed again, less insistent now, and more tender. Aybara drew back, gripping Galad by the hair and bringing him down to his manhood. It was slick with the man’s release, and semi-flaccid. Galad enthusiastically licked and sucked at the other man, cleaning him. The seed was salty and bitter in Galad’s mouth—the taste was familiar these days, when the Dark One’s touch rotted food and forced over-seasoning—but still it felt right to Galad.

 

He took his mouth away, Aybara’s cock clean, if still moist from Galad’s tongue, and relaxed onto his bed. He felt his own seed beneath him, felt Perrin’s leaking out from his strangely loose hole. He looked to the other man, who’d begun to dress himself. Galad flushed deeply—they’d come to negotiate, and he was covered in release on every side while the other man was perfectly clean!—but he was tired, so tired, and he drifted to sleep, covered in his own seed, still longing to be filled again.

 

* * *

 

Groggy, Galad awoke. Where was he? He looked around only to find his own tent, as expected. He wore only his smallclothes, and lay beneath the sheets, which were far less sticky than they should have been. A dream, then?

 

It was, of course. Galad was in camp on the Field of Merrilor. Today, the world would face the Dragon Reborn and beg him not to break the seals on the Dark One’s prison. And Galad had sworn to follow a man who supported al’Thor’s plan!

 

Sighing, Galad reflected on his dream. He’d follow Perrin Aybara for good reason. The man was a good leader with a strong character. He’d almost single-handedly reshaped Galad’s worldview; the world was not just black and white, there were shades of grey. Galad still believed there was always a best course of action, of course, and he still believed in righteousness, but Aybara had shown him a different way, and Galad appreciated it.

 

He remembered the feel of those strong arms in his dream, what it was like to be filled by another man. He wondered if his dreamself had been influenced by Perrin’s _ta’veren_ nature, encouraging him to do what he might otherwise have done one in a thousand times. But he dismissed those thoughts; it was a dream, after all. Curious, that in the dream he could simultaneously be more bashful and more forward than he was when waking. His face didn't redden upon his reflection as it had in the dream, but neither would he have consciously placed himself in that position.

 

Galad was glad his true encounter with the _ta’veren_ had not gone that way, though a little wistful, as well, that it had not. Sighing, he removed his smallclothes, taking a washcloth and cleaning the stickiness from himself. His release was one thing that remained from the dream, at least, and his erection showed that the arousal persisted.

 

Galad sighed. In his dream, as in real life, he’d given into a _ta’veren_ , through lust or otherwise. And today, he would meet the most powerful _ta’veren_ to ever live! The Light send he didn’t make a fool out of himself with this one. Or at least that he didn’t soil another pair of smallclothes.


	2. The Dragon's Touch

Galad swept out from his tent, relieving the two guards at its entrance, and they fell in behind him as he marched along the rough path between the tents. He wore no armor, favoring instead a fine white coat worked in gold trim and his white cloak. Knots of rank decorated his shoulders—as Lord Captain Commander, he had more than any other Child—and he wore Valda’s sword at his waist. His own sword, now; he should remember that.

 

He conferred briefly with Trom, warning the man to hold Bornhald back from the meeting. The man was better since he’d abandoned the drink, but he could be touchy about Aybara, and Galad would take no chances letting him near the Dragon Reborn. Besides, the Children were to be represented as part of Aybara’s procession today.

 

Galad saw to some of the camp’s affairs, ensuring there had been no trouble between the Children and the other camps. Many of the men had no love for Aiel. Some still thought little of Aybara.

 

Soon, the meeting was to begin. Galad took only a handful of Children with him, including Trom and Bornhald, and met up with the others as they marched to the center of the Field. Perrin Aybara and his wife, Queen Alliandre of Ghealdan, and the Lady First of Mayene, Berelain. He nodded to Aybara, bowing properly to the Queen and the First before favoring the latter with a smile. She _was_ beautiful; that was not lost on him. But it was wasted.

 

He and the Children joined the others’ column. Galad made some small talk with Aybara—he did not let the dream touch his manner, altering neither his face nor his voice; it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to a man he’d thought of intimately—and then with Berelain. She was really quite clever. A pity.

 

They did not mingle with the other rulers as they arrived in the center of the field. Galad noted that most of them—all but the Borderlanders and Domani, who followed al’Thor, and his own companions—paid their respects to Egwene as the Amyrlin. That was well. Men may not like Aes Sedai, but the White Tower should still be respected. If only his own men could see it the same way.

 

Eventually, Galad noticed the clouds parting as a final procession wove its way to the meeting place. Al’Thor, come at last. Strange, that that boy he’d seen in the Royal Palace so long ago should be the most powerful man in the world. He hadn’t seen the man since then, but his name had followed him. First to Tar Valon, when he’d met a young woman named Egwene al’Vere. That was before he’d proclaimed himself, when Galad could write off his prolificacy as coincidence. How apt of Gawyn to jest that he might be _ta’veren_ , even back then.

 

The Dragon Reborn came into view, a large bundle held in the air before him. _Saidin_ . Galad shivered. The Power was necessary to win the Last Battle; he knew this and accepted it. _Saidin_ was said to have been cleansed—some said by al’Thor himself—but who could be sure? Had these Asha’man succumbed to madness? Galad prayed that was not the case, at least not for al’Thor. Three thousand years of fearing _saidin_ would not change so easily, but Tarmon Gai’don rested on his shoulders.

 

Galad found himself watching al’Thor, and he knew he was not alone. Likely every eye save for the man’s own guardsmen followed him. This was not the man Galad remembered.

 

His walk was proud and strong, the walk of a King. Galad saw a sword on his waist—he’d worn one the last time, too—and there was no doubt it belonged, despite the clear absence of a left hand. He’d had almost the confidence for the sword, last time—Gareth Bryne himself had noted it—but now he had the grace, as well, the refinement of years of discipline and practice. Galad knew that walk himself.

 

But there was something _more_ than the walk; a Warder radiated grace, but he could be ignored. Al’Thor had a presence that few possessed. With a start, Galad saw grass growing beneath the man’s feet. It was quite a show, with the sunlight and the plants and the Power-constructed pavilion. But Galad knew that even without the theatrics, al’Thor would have drawn the eye. He was the Dragon Reborn for true, no longer a simple shepherd from the backlands of Andor.

 

Al’Thor made his pronouncement that five could attend from each procession. Galad entered the pavilion with Aybara, Faile, Alliandre, and Berelain. Al’Thor studied everyone as they approached, and his countenance almost made Galad falter. He eyed each leader, the careful study of a player of _Daes Dae’mar_ , but he wore a… kindliness in his face. This was not the harsh study of a King or nobleman. It was a man seeing companions.

 

When that gaze reached Galad, it seemed to stop, just for a moment. Galad’s breath caught. He had feared to see a madness in those eyes, and expected the coldness that too many with power achieved. Instead, there was a warmth. Galad had thought the boy from the Two Rivers must be gone, erased—certainly, Egwene had had to change to become Amyrlin, and his own sister had grown much despite being raised for the task of Queen—but, impossibly, he was there. Oh, there was something else in those eyes, a kind of wisdom and age that no one al’Thor’s age would normally possess; he had changed. But he was kind, and happy.

 

Was there something else in those eyes, or did Galad imagine it? A connection to Galad, an intimacy? Al’Thor seemed to _know_ him, to _see_ him. He decided everyone must feel it; an effect of al’Thor’s _ta’veren_ nature, or perhaps his newfound wisdom. Still, Galad remembered that look, let himself believe it had lingered on him, just for a moment.

 

The meeting itself was rather straightforward, at least from Galad’s perspective. A way to stop war forever? Idealistic, perhaps, but it would hold for a time. Even if it didn’t, _trying_ to keep peace would make the world a better place. Goodness was the nature of man, Galad knew; the Light was within them all.

 

He did note the tension between al’Thor and Egwene, and the reaction of both to the appearance of the woman Moiraine Sedai. Moiraine Damodred? He had not met the woman, but she was of some relation to him, and to Gawyn and Elayne. Interesting, that his own family should hold such influence on the leaders of the world. But then, his sister was the single most powerful ruler outside the Seanchan-held lands. Perhaps it should be expected.

 

Regardless, the meeting went smoothly after Moiraine’s arrival. The Borderlanders were sent to Tarwin’s Gap, and the others began to disperse. Galad kept his eyes on Rand al’Thor, and he parted with the memory of that heat he’d imagined between them.

 

* * *

 

This time, Galad’s dream came harder and faster than the last.

 

Rand al’Thor was in his tent, regarding him with those eyes. Eyes that saw deeper than any living man’s should. Galad felt trapped by those eyes; not the feral wolf’s eyes Perrin had regarded him with, but eyes that were all too human, eyes that felt and saw everything. Perrin’s eyes had been raw, animal. Rand’s eyes were tender, alight with passion. They regarded him not with love or lust—at least, not _only_ lust—but with understanding.

 

“I felt something of a kinship with you, even in the beginning,” Galad found himself saying, in the way of dreams. “I don’t know why; you were a stranger, and you were dangerous. Perhaps I was influenced by Elayne’s regard for you. But I was right about the danger.”

 

Al’Thor looked pensive for a moment, perhaps reflecting on his path. “Yes,” he said slowly, “you were right about that. Once I might have wished you and Elaida had had your will, that day. It might have saved the world some pain.”

 

Galad’s heart lurched, crushed that his plain truth had hurt this man. “No,” he stated. “It was good that I was suspicious, but you needed to become who you are. I don’t agree with everything you’ve done—I cannot, and I imagine it weighs on you as well—but you are necessary. The best result came to pass.”

 

Rand’s lips twitched in a small smile. “Necessary,” he said. “An appropriate word.” Suddenly, he grinned. “I thought you were too rigid. And maybe a sight too pretty.” He eyed Galad, those eyes catching the light of the lanterns in Galad’s tent.

 

Galad colored, but the other man remained confident. He cleared his throat. “Rigid… yes, that I may be.” He looked away from al’Thor, though there was nothing in the tent to see. Too pretty? The man before him said that? Light! Rand’s reddish hair caught the light, shimmering gold. How like the flames he looked; how kingly. His eyes, now blue, now grey, but never cold, regarded Galad with a different light, a different heat. A heat that came from within. A beautiful man, even flawed as he was. _He_ called Galad too pretty? “You’re not the first to say so. I’m sure you will not be the last. But trespassers were not allowed in the Palace. I will always stand for what I feel is right.”

 

He looked back to Rand, whose eyes glowed with mirth. He suddenly realized how close the other man was; his tent was barely larger than those of the other Children, and there was little room to lounge. Slowly, al’Thor narrowed the distance between them. “‘Right…’” he whispered, close enough for Galad to feel the heat of his breath. Their eyes met, Rand’s searching, Galad’s hesitant. Galad’s heart thumped murderously in his chest; he was sure the other must hear it, close as he was. Those eyes! Rand lifted his one hand to Galad’s head, lightly gripping the hair around his ear and drawing their foreheads together. “Is this ‘right’, Galad?”

 

Both men closed their eyes, feeling the moment. Galad measured his breath, trying to find calm, but he did not seek the Void. He did not mute his feelings. He embraced them. He felt Rand’s fingers entwined in his hair, felt his breath between their faces. _The Dragon Reborn,_ he thought, _a man who can channel! He—_ Galad dismissed his thoughts. They fled, not focused into the Flame and the Void, but banished by the heat of passion.

 

Their lips met, and the world was set afire.

 

Rand was warm and impassioned. He angled Galad’s face to match his own, pulling him closer. Galad shifted toward him, lifting his own right hand to the back of al’Thor’s neck. There was no time for indecision; like blades locked in a duel, they gave themselves to the moment. Their lips pressed together, firm. Galad felt his confidence grow. The kiss was not a struggle, it was a dance: two men in equal part, giving and taking in tandem.

 

They parted lips, but both men held to each other as they caught their breath. Galad couldn’t hold back a breathy laugh, his mouth frozen in a smile. He looked back into the other man’s eyes, finding the same humor there as he felt in himself. Rand pecked him on the lips again, for the first time looking sheepish. Galad broke into a broad grin, pushing Rand down against the floor and settling on top of him.

 

The Dragon Reborn wore an ornate red coat, worked in the Shienaran fashion with golden vines and herons. Galad wanted it gone.

 

As he began to unbutton Rand’s coat, the other man laughed, settling his head back. “I’ll have to mask the bond; they think I’m in camp to see Perrin, or maybe Tam. I’ve never been good at that… maybe they’ll think I’m with one of the others,” he grinned up at Galad, who’d undone the coat and was beginning to unlace the shirt. _The others?_ Galad had assumed Elayne would bond him, but by all reports he’d been inseparable from Min Farshaw, as well. Did he have a _third_ woman? _And now me! Light!_

 

Galad ignored his thoughts, kissing Rand again once he finished unlacing his shirt. Rand rose toward him, gripping his collar and pulling him in for a tight kiss. He released it, fumbling at the buttons of Galad’s coat, but it was a two-handed job. Galad took Rand’s hand in his, noting the other man’s furrowed brow. He kissed it, murmuring “it’s okay” as he undid his own buttons.

 

“Ah, Light,” Rand said, glancing at the stump of his left hand. “I’m not quite used to it.”

 

“I understand,” Galad told him, shrugging off his coat and moving onto his shirt. He gave Rand a look that he hoped was sympathetic without being pitying. “You were a swordsman. A blademaster, by all accounts. If I lost a hand…”

 

Rand smiled in thanks. “Channeling should have always been my first instinct, but the sword… it’s about discipline, and form. It was a part of me before I even suspected who I was. The sword kept me grounded, connected me to people I loved and respected. I thought I could forget and move on, but I’m just not there yet.”

 

Galad nodded, understanding the man’s plight. He finally took off his shirt and put it aside, then sat straddling Rand bare-chested. He quirked an eyebrow at the man beneath him, hoping to bring him back from his thoughts. It worked. Galad smirked as Rand rose again, encircling Galad’s waste as he kissed him. Rand’s right hand found Galad’s lower back, pulling their hips closer together as his left arm supported Galad’s shoulder.

 

Galad ground against Rand as they kissed, feeling the man’s arousal growing beneath him. He pulled back, smiling. “Too rigid?” He palmed at Rand’s erection and smirked. The other man blushed, but managed a smile. His coat and shirt still hung on his shoulders, and Galad brushed his fingers along his chest as he removed them.

 

Now that both men were bare-chested, Galad saw the dragon markings on Rand’s forearms, as well as the terrible wounds on his side. He rested his hand near the tender skin, careful not to break the wounds open. He frowned, but decided to ignore it lest they be distracted from their actions. Rand seemed to sense his mood, and he embraced him again, more tightly this time.

 

The man’s arms were strong. That was Galad’s thought as he and Rand returned to their kiss: his arms felt solid, and safe. Like Rand wanted to protect him, no matter how capable Galad may be on his own. He felt the burden of the world in those arms, the dedication to protect all those he could.

 

Rand’s breath seemed to catch as they parted again, and Galad took the opportunity to massage the man through his breeches. He felt Rand twitch in his hand and smiled, working to remove his belt. He removed his own belt as well, loosening his pants before beginning to pull Rand’s down. He glanced toward al’Thor, whose hand was in his own hair as he watched Galad. His face was flushed and his breath came heavy; Galad knew he must look the same.

 

Galad pulled Rand’s pants past his knees, taking the smallclothes with them. He drank in the sight of Rand’s erection—it was impressively sized, quite long and suitably thick, just larger than Galad’s own—before tentatively taking it in his hand and lowering himself toward it. He gave a few slow strokes, testing Rand’s reaction, and met his eyes as he took the man’s member in his mouth.

 

He worked slowly at first, wetting Rand’s manhood as he moved up and down. He couldn’t fit the whole length in his mouth, but he did well enough judging by the noises coming from the other man. Rand was releasing low, regular groans, responding in rhythm to Galad’s ministrations.

 

Soon, Rand took Galad by the hair and rotated the two of them, supporting himself on his left forearm as he thrusted in and out of Galad’s mouth. Galad let him; he enjoyed it. Eventually Rand tired, and both men sat up, moving in for another kiss. Rand palmed Galad’s erection through his pants, slowly wiggling them off Galad’s hips with his one hand. Galad helped him, pulling them all the way off.

 

Rand smiled before taking Galad’s length in hand and stroking it, the dragon head prominent on his hand. Galad took the time to drink in the sight of Rand al’Thor: his reddish hair ran with sweat, darkening it against his head; his eyes were partially glazed over with lust, but the light was still there when he looked at Galad, that glow of desire and humor; his broad chest was well-muscled, with defined lines and angles and hard muscle all across his torso; his arms, too, were strong and well-sculpted, his dragon markings curling about the forearms and glittering in the light, not at all like any tattoo he’d seen. His manhood hung between his legs, mostly erect, and in his one hand was Galad’s own, which he lathered with attention.

 

“I think you’re very pretty, too… Rand,” Galad said, his mouth twitching in a half-smile. Rand glanced up in surprise, but gave his own smile in return before bending his head down to take Galad’s length. He worked much as Galad had, slowly up and down along the shaft, using his tongue to tease the head and moisten Galad’s cock. Rand took much of Galad’s length, causing Galad to gasp in pleasure as he felt the back of the man’s throat.

 

Eventually Rand slowed and stopped, rising off Galad with a pop. He smiled. Galad reached forward, taking him by the shoulder and curling his hand in his hair for a deep kiss. They stayed that way for a time, caught up in the passion of their kiss, but Galad broke off first and said two words: “take me.”

 

Rand grinned, moving Galad’s head down to re-wet his length before turning Galad around. Both men now sat at an angle with their backs to the floor, Galad above Rand, and both braced themselves against the floor as they moved into position. Rand held his wet cock at Galad’s entrance, supporting his weight on his left forearm, while Galad, one hand to the floor, guided himself to sit on Rand’s length.

 

He gasped as Rand pressed against his hole, meeting just enough resistance for discomfort. He soon entered, though, and Galad felt the rest of the journey was a little easier. He lowered as far as he could, his ass just brushing against Rand’s pelvis. Galad took a moment to relax, trying to loosen himself, and then slowly began to shift up and down along Rand’s length.

 

Al’Thor let out a groan as Galad found his rhythm, and Galad himself released sharp moans whenever he lowered himself onto Rand. In this position, he hit that _spot_ with nearly every thrust, sending unimaginable pleasure throughout his body. He turned his head and found Rand waiting there to kiss him, slightly throwing off their rhythm for the intimacy of the kiss. Galad eventually grew comfortable enough to rock faster and harder against the other man, filling himself almost completely with each thrust.

 

Galad’s arms grew tired after a while from supporting himself, and his legs from thrusting back and forth. He settled back against Rand, who held Galad’s arms in place with his own and raised both their hips from the floor. Galad was almost completely spread eagle, his arms in the crooks of Rand’s elbows and his legs spread on either side. The muscles in his chest and core stretched, well-defined, hard lines and hard muscle, as Rand began to thrust into him from below.

 

Rand’s pace was notably different from Galad’s, more frantic and desperate. Each thrust drove his shaft fully home, causing Galad to yelp. Rand’s own groans in Galad’s ear were near constant and deeply erotic to the man on top, causing his untouchable length to spasm with desire. He wished he could relieve himself, but his arms were still pinned by Rand’s, and he thought the man must have done it on purpose.

 

Rand continued to pound into Galad, both men quivering with the effort of their legs and whimpering with their sensations. Desperate, Galad turned back to Rand, seeking another kiss. He found it, and the men’s lips were locked as Rand continued to thrust at his fast pace.

 

Soon Rand broke the kiss, his thrusts coming faster. “I’m close,” he murmured to Galad, pounding ever harder. Galad’s head rolled back, almost touching the floor next to Rand’s as he felt Rand thrust inside him. With a final, hardest thrust, both men moaned, and Rand released his seed into Galad. Galad felt the member pulse inside him, throbbing with each spurt of Rand’s release. He felt the warmth of the other man’s seed as his thrusts resumed, far slower than before. Eventually Rand collapsed, breathing heavy, and both his cock and his seed spilled from Galad.

 

His arms now free, Galad—after a moment’s rest—touched his length lightly before beginning to stroke it. It was already sticky near the top from his pre-release, all of the leakage caused by Rand’s relentless pounding. He missed the feel of Rand inside him and regretted its loss, but he was still sensitive and his cock felt about as good as it ever had.

 

Rand seemed sleepy, but he shifted out from under Galad, murmuring something to the effect of, “let me.” He moved to be between Galad’s legs, and then took Galad’s sensitive length in his mouth without hesitation. Galad took in a sharp breath at the sensation, closing his eyes and bucking his hips against the pleasure. He found both hands in Rand’s hair, guiding him, and the other man didn’t care. Before Galad could release—he’d set an admittedly relentless pace for al’Thor—Rand removed himself.

 

Galad frowned at the loss and was ready to say something when he felt Rand’s tongue probing his entrance, massaging the area and undoubtedly tasting his own seed. He gasped as the suddenness and pleasure of the feeling, lifting his hips to provide better access. Galad’s eyes fluttered closed and he fought a smile, but soon couldn’t resist it as he gave in to the sensation.

 

Eventually Rand returned to Galad’s manhood, using his hand and mouth in concert to bring Galad ever closer to release. Galad informed Rand that he was near, and the other man removed his mouth, focusing all of his attention on the strokes of his hand. After all they’d done Galad had no trouble finishing, and with a cry he spilled his seed across the Dragon Reborn’s face.

 

Galad looked down, for an instant mortified, but Rand still had that sultry look in his eye and soon broke into s grin, Galad’s seed spilling across his lips. Light, but it was a beautiful sight. Rand took Galad in his mouth again, cleaning off any excess release and taking advantage of Galad’s heightened sensitivity, but he needn’t have bothered; nearly all of Galad’s release was on his own face.

 

“You’re a bit of a mess, my Lord Dragon,” Galad teased as he sat up, leaning toward Rand. Both men’s breath still came heavy, their shafts still twitching if too sensitive for use. They smiled at each other, Galad’s face untouched except by sweat, Rand’s covered by Galad’s release. Galad could still feel Rand’s seed inside him, slowly spilling from beneath him. He took Rand’s face in hand, mindless of the stickiness as he kissed the man yet again.

 

“You’re not so clean yourself, Lord Captain Commander,” Rand replied after breaking their kiss, his hand teasing at Galad’s entrance and the release that was still there. Galad’s face was as sticky as his, now, and both men were covered in sweat and the other man’s release. Laughing quietly in each other’s arms, they fell to the floor, falling asleep amidst kisses in the firelight.


	3. The White Boar

Galad did not linger on the dream. Tarmon Gai’don had come.

 

Like the _cemaros_ on the Sea of Storms, the Last Battle beat at the world. For weeks men fought, and died. Shadowspawn were slain by scores, but still too many men were lost. Galad fought under Aybara and Elayne at Caemlyn, at Braem Wood, at Cairhien; he fought to defend the two nations that had sired him, to defend the man he’d sworn to, to defend his sister. Above all those oaths was his own: to defend what was right. The Shadow would not take this world. It could not.

 

And yet, the Last Battle was less a battle than a resistance. Men fought not to win, but to _live_ . For many, Galad knew, the two were the same: the Shadow was death. But Galad had believed, had been taught, that the Light was _stronger_ than the Shadow. That it was the Shadow that buckled beneath the Light.

 

That was not what he witnessed.

 

Every day, more men died. Every day, the Shadow advanced and the Light was forced back. From Andor to Cairhien. From Kandor to Arafel. From ruined Malkier through Tarwin’s Gap, setting Shienar aflame. On every front, the Light gave ground. Davram Bashere, Jagad Agelmar, Gareth Bryne—men Galad had been raised to respect, corrupted by the Shadow.

 

The Dragon fought at Shayol Ghul. The armies of the Light made their last stand at Merrilor—the last, Galad knew, for there was nowhere left to run. Should the Dragon fall, or the armies, the world would end. The Light itself would fail.

 

And that, even more than death, terrified Galad. He had always believed in righteousness. He had followed the Light strictly, using its strength as his own. He had found the Children not because of their reputation—never that—but because of a book that read remarkably similarly to Galad’s own beliefs. He had learned, certainly, that those beliefs were flawed; Aybara had shown him that, and Morgase had, when she’d left Aybara’s judgement to him. They had forced him to broaden his view of the world, to understand the intricacies of the human spirit. Aybara had killed, and yet, he was a good man. Galad saw that, now: good men erred, and even the best could do wrong. But that had not prepared him. Not for the strength of the Shadow, not for its resilience, not for the Light’s _weakness_ in the face of its monstrous foe.

 

Not for Gawyn.

 

Oh, Gawyn. Galad had wept as his brother died in his arms. Gawyn had always been very lost. He had emulated Taringail, and Galad, and Gareth Bryne and Hammar and others. Galad knew his brother idolized him—he should not, but he did—but Gawyn had always fought to be like others, had never found his _self_. Gawyn had torn himself between his duties to Andor and the Tower, to Elayne and Egwene, to his head and his heart.

 

How much of that was Galad’s own fault, he wondered? How many of Gawyn’s actions could be lain at his feet? Had he served the Tower because he’d wanted to be like his brother, to preserve the law? How many times had Gawyn broken his own heart because what he found there did not match what Galad might view as right?

 

Gawyn had understood goodness, and strength. He had admired Galad, had struggled to be like him, but had never understood that he must be his own man. Galad had recognized long ago that not everyone saw the world as he did, but Gawyn had never stopped trying to attain that ideal. And now Gawyn lay dead in Galad’s arms, his life wasted after—finally—he had found his place. The burden of Andor lifted from his shoulders, the shadow of his brother gone, the woman he loved at his side.

 

So Galad wept for his brother, the brother he had loved always, the brother who had loved him in turn. He wept for the poor, lost man who had found himself too late. He wept for the man who had admired him, the man who would never know how much Galad admired him in turn. He wept for Gawyn’s earnestness, his innocence, his heart. He wept for the man who had died thinking he was never good enough.

 

If Gawyn had been sworn to defend Elayne through his duties to Andor, so was Galad sworn to defend them both, by his own conscience. And to al’Thor, he supposed, though that one was out of reach. Son of Tigraine? Galad would have to face that later. Now, he had work to do.

 

Galad had failed Gawyn. Demandred flung death across the battlefield, across Elayne’s army, searching for her. He howled for the Dragon Reborn—for Galad’s brother. Galad would not fail them, too. He would do what he could. What he must.

 

Galad rode to Demandred. To his death.

 

* * *

 

Galad did not know if the fever dreams meant he was alive or dead. Truly, he did not care. He let them take him. He dreamt, of course, of Gawyn.

 

He and Gawyn circled each other in the practice yard. When Galad looked, it was sometimes the yard at Caemlyn, sometimes Tar Valon. That did not seem strange to him. Nor did the absence of fawning women, though that had been a rarity in either city. Strange or not, Galad watched his brother, the Void enclosing him.

 

Gawyn’s eyes were determined, and defiant. Always he sought to prove himself, but he was still too hesitant, Galad thought. Galad surged forward, not intending to strike Gawyn, but to draw him out.

 

Gawyn’s practice blade deflected Galad’s expertly, and the dance began. Again and again, their blades met, turning each other aside even as they struck. Gawyn was quick and sure, fighting with a confidence he rarely displayed. That was good. Galad moved about him, keeping on the offensive as they dueled. He had to dance back as Gawyn tried to drive his sword home—that was new, from him—but the forward thrust gave Galad the opportunity to move within his brother’s range, striking his wrists, legs, and head in succession. Gawyn’s sword fell to the floor, and he followed.

 

Galad immediately released the Void, kneeling beside his brother. Gawyn seemed unnaturally still. For a moment—a horrendous, _wrong_ moment—the world changed. Gawyn was black and bloodied, and Galad’s right arm vanished at the elbow. Before he took it all in, the practice yard returned to normal and the wrongness was completely forgotten.

 

Concern painted Galad’s face as he reached out to his brother, who groaned. “That’s never fun,” Gawyn said. Opening his eyes, he glanced at Galad’s hand, then grinned, pulling Galad to the ground atop him.

 

Both men laughed as Galad sat up, dusting the dirt off his bare shoulders. “It’s dishonorable to trick a man who tries to help you, Gawyn,” Galad lectured, but he didn’t feel the sternness. Indeed, the solemn look Gawyn gave him quickly turned to another grin. He bowed his head, dramatizing his formality for Galad’s sake.

 

“Well done, Galad. I’ll beat you one day,” he said. Galad expected him to rise for another bout—Gawyn always wanted another—but he stayed seated. “The world has changed so much,” he whispered, suddenly wistful.

 

Galad frowned, memory intruding. The Dragon was reborn. Morgase was dead—no, he’d found her. The White Tower was broken—no, it was healed. Galad was Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, and Gawyn was, inexplicably, not First Prince of the Sword. But how could that be? They were both here, in Caemlyn—no, Tar Valon—and the world was calm. Memory conflicted and changed and failed to resolve itself.

 

Gawyn spoke again, and Galad’s mind calmed, forming what he needed to know. This was a dream, and memory or experience did not have to match fact. He knew Gawyn to be dead, and yet he knew he was before him. He knew the Last Battle raged, but he knew, too, that this calm was real. “But you haven’t changed, Galad.”

 

Galad looked to his brother, finding his place in the dream, accepting the words it gave him. “No, Gawyn,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t say that.”

 

The other man glanced at him quizzically, then shrugged. “Perhaps you have, at that,” he said, looking up at the sky above them. “The Light knows I have. But not enough,” he added, “never good enough.”

 

Galad took Gawyn’s hand, drawing his attention. “You were _always_ good enough for me, Gawyn,” he said sadly. “You never had anything to prove.” _Ah, poor Gawyn_ , part of him thought, the part that knew Gawyn to be dead on the Field of Merrilor.

 

Gawyn smiled, and there was a sadness there, a wisdom. He looked older—like a man who had seen his own death. “Not to you, Galad,” he said, “but to myself. I defended Elaida, then freed Siuan. I kept Egwene from the Tower, then fought her army. I swore to serve her, but defied her. I abandoned Elayne, then ran to her, then left her again. I could never truly make a decision. Not like you.”

 

“You did things I couldn’t, Gawyn. You _felt_. You followed your heart. You just didn’t know where it led. In another life, you wouldn’t have had to.”

 

His brother regarded him for a moment, then spoke. “I did find my place, in the end, I think,” Gawyn sighed. “I let _him_ go, Galad. Too often I thought of myself in other men’s shoes. I pictured myself like you, or Gareth Bryne, or Hammar. But I never hated them for it—I could never hate you, Galad; you were annoyingly perfect, but you loved me too much—I just hated myself. I resented that I could not be you, and I tried, so hard, but the more I tried the more I lost myself.” Gawyn closed his eyes, a single tear forced down his cheek. Galad felt tears in his own eyes, and he did not brush them away.

 

“And then I thought he killed mother—he didn’t, everyone _told_ me he didn’t, but I thought he did—and I did it again, Galad. Only this time, I hated him, instead. I hated him for killing her, but I hated him for being who I should have been. He did more to defend Elayne than I ever did, you know. I had hated myself when I wanted to hate you—but I hated him when I wanted to hate me.”

 

“Gawyn—”

 

“No,” Gawyn interrupted. He smiled, and the sadness left, but the tears were still there. “It’s okay, Galad. I finally realized. I recognized what I’d done—with you, with Bryne, with al’Thor—and I let it all go. I couldn’t _be_ you, or him. I had to be _me_. And I was, in the end. I should have protected Elayne better. But I was there for Egwene, and I knew I belonged there. When I let him go, I found myself, Galad. I just made one silly mistake afterwards, that’s all.”

 

Slowly, Galad nodded. He knew Gawyn was right—he’d thought the same things himself. In a way, he was happy that his brother had known peace. But he knew, too, that Gawyn—the real Gawyn, the one he’d held, the one he’d felt die—had still been haunted. _“I’ve never been good enough,”_ he’d said. And then, much like the dream, he’d told Galad about al’Thor, about how he’d stopped hating him. _A final plea_ , Galad thought. _He wanted me to recognize he did the right thing._ Here, he had that chance.

 

“I’m proud of you, Gawyn,” he said, smiling. A few tears had spilled, drying on his cheeks, but no more came. A weight seemed to shed from his brother’s shoulders as he looked to Galad, beaming. “I loved you, truly. You were always a fine brother.”

 

Gawyn squeezed his hand; Galad had forgotten he still held it. The men embraced, their pain released.

 

Gawyn broke away, smiling at Galad. Then—startlingly—he kissed him.

 

Galad’s mind raced. He _knew_ this was wrong, in that part of him that was real, that part of him that always guided his path. And yet… part of him spoke of the dream, of how this was not true. That part lulled him, telling him that this was his way to say goodbye to his brother. He had held him in his arms while waking, the dream reminded him, and now he could take him in his arms again.

 

Still, it nagged at Galad. This was his brother! But _was_ he, in this place? Gawyn was dead—could it be wrong to lay with a man in a dream? Could it be wrong, if this was how his mind chose to honor that man?

 

The dream won, and Galad’s thoughts fled. In the way of dreams, he did not _do_ anything, but still he acted.

 

He kissed Gawyn back. It was a full, tender kiss. It felt… heavy. There was weight behind this kiss, on both sides. It wasn’t just passion, it was… love?

 

They pulled away, and Gawyn smiled. He did not seem so shy as he once had. This was not the boy Galad had saved from the pond, it was the man who had become a Warder, who had challenged Demandred. Gawyn’s confidence sparked something in Galad, and he kissed the man again, forcing him to the ground as he felt his bare chest.

 

Their lips locked together, slowly working against each other, _feeling_ each other. Galad felt Gawyn beneath him, felt the other man’s body, his hard muscles and red-gold curls. He broke their kiss, resting his forehead on the other’s. Despite his passion, he felt no rush.

 

He kissed Gawyn’s chin, his jawline, his neck. Slowly, he worked his way down the man’s body, giving attention to each spot. He kissed his collarbone, his chest. He worked his way down the hard expanse of Gawyn’s core, kissing each muscle he found there. He passed the man’s navel, then looked up at Gawyn, questioning.

 

Gawyn looked uncertain, and Galad was reminded of the boy he’d always known. Almost, he stopped, but something guided him to Gawyn’s belt, and he removed it. He began to remove the man’s breeches, as well.

 

“Really, Galad,” Gawyn told him, hesitant. “You don’t have to.”

 

“I want to,” Galad replied, removing the pants and exposing Gawyn’s manhood. The other man flushed, somehow embarrassed. Galad returned to his face, taking him in a deep kiss. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Gawyn.”

 

He seemed to calm, somehow, and nodded to Galad as he returned to Gawyn’s waist. He took Gawyn by the hand, stroking him methodically, and his brother’s head rolled back. He heard very slight, low groans, and smiled. Gawyn would be used to this, after a fashion, but what about—

 

Gawyn gasped as Galad took him in his mouth, sinking his head all the way to the hilt. Galad would have smiled had he not been occupied, and his satisfaction only increased when Gawyn couldn’t help but grip Galad by the hair. Galad began to bob slowly up and down, swirling his tongue as he did so to increase the other man’s pleasure. Gawyn shuddered, his grip tightening, and he forced Galad’s head down again. Galad nearly choked, but recovered before he embarrassed himself or his brother. _That’s right, Gawyn_ , he thought, _there’s that confidence_.

 

Soon Gawyn released Galad’s head and he set to work, methodically sucking Gawyn’s length. Well, he was not really “sucking”: he kept his mouth loose, pleasuring with his lips and tongue and sometimes the back of his throat. He was not practiced—not outside of dreams—but it felt appropriate.

 

Galad paid special attention to the head of Gawyn’s shaft, wetting it and his lips with his tongue as he worked. Each time he came down he slowly teased the head, lightly tightening his lips to stimulate the whole thing at once. He flicked his tongue experimentally at the hole at the tip, tasting Gawyn’s pre-release, before bobbing all the way to the base of Gawyn’s cock.

 

Gawyn was moaning unabatedly now, his hips bucking against Galad as he writhed against the floor. Galad saw his brother struggling to keep his hand away, and, rolling his eyes, he took the hand and placed it on his own head. Gawyn looked up, confused, before he blushed and began controlling Galad’s rhythm. Gawyn’s pace was different from Galad’s own—he spent more time at the base, the tip of his shaft against Galad’s throat, than he did at the head—but otherwise it was quite an experience. His shy, insecure younger brother—the one who’d looked up to him, always fearing to step wrong—was forcing Galad against his manhood with abandon.

 

Eventually Gawyn slowed, letting go of Galad, and the older man released his cock with a pop. Galad caught his breath for a moment, preparing to return to his ministrations.

 

“Galad,” Gawyn said. Galad glanced up at him. The other gestured towards Galad’s pants, where a tent was clearly visible. “Let me.”

 

Galad sighed, reluctant to abandon his work, but Gawyn seemed to have a remarkable idea. He adjusted himself to lay beside Galad, both their heads at the other’s groin. Galad grinned, helping remove his own pants, and took Gawyn’s length in his mouth again.

 

Soon, he felt Gawyn take his shaft in his mouth and moaned against the other man. Gawyn was tentative at first, lingering on the head, but that hesitation stimulated the most sensitive part of Galad’s length. Gawyn slowly worked forward, taking as much of Galad as he could, but seemed to realize he could not take it all. Instead, he began to bob back and forth from just past the middle of Galad’s length, taking cues from Galad’s own work.

 

They worked for a while, both men groaning around the other’s manhood. The warm expanse of Gawyn’s mouth enveloped Galad like velvet, eliciting regular moans of pleasure. They had different paces, at first: Galad, working around the whole length, was slower; Gawyn, who couldn’t fit all of Galad, bobbed faster. The rhythm seemed to confuse them both, though, so they eventually found a happy medium, each rising and falling in tandem.

 

Gawyn withdrew eventually, working to remove Galad’s pants the rest of the way. Galad helped him, discarding the breeches somewhere to the side. They were both completely naked, now, and completely unabashed as Gawyn returned to Galad’s length, settling above him this time instead of beside.

 

Galad moved to take Gawyn’s shaft in his mouth again, but his brother’s spread legs above his face gave him another idea. Gawyn’s balls hung above him, and beyond those Galad saw the perfectly sculpted mounds of his rear. The cleft in that muscle was enticing, an emptiness, an invitation. Carefully, so as not to jolt his brother, Galad shifted Gawyn’s hips forward. He saw the hole there, puckered, the skin around it smooth and clear. Letting out a breathy moan as Gawyn bobbed yet again, Galad lifted his head to lick tentatively at the entrance.

 

Gawyn released Galad’s length, evidently confused, and then gasped as Galad probed his tongue deeper. Galad smiled against the other man’s ass. He didn’t know about this—not really—but part of him knew what his brother must feel, the part that remembered Galad’s other dreams, the tongues of other men. It was not so much a direct pleasure, not like stimulating a man’s length or that _spot_ within him that Galad had discovered, but it was sensual, and suggestive. A tongue anywhere could do that, but a tongue _here_ moistened and loosened a man, suggesting more to come. It was passionate, and seductive, and it even tickled a bit.

 

Galad forced his tongue in and out of the entrance, feeling Gawyn flex around it. The other man returned to Galad’s length, and Galad moaned into him. He worked his mouth like an intricate kiss, his tongue encircling the hole and intruding, his lips stimulating the outside. As he worked on, his brother still taking his shaft, he began to feel Gawyn relax, loosening, inviting him deeper.

 

Galad withdrew and heard a light whimper from the other. He smiled, then slipped his longest finger in his mouth, moistening it. Gawyn continued his efforts, eager to please and to prove, and Galad circled his entrance with the finger before slowly entering the loosened hole.

 

Gawyn rose slightly, evidently curious, and looked back. Galad had almost his whole finger in. Gawyn rocked back, forcing the finger the rest of the way. He still looked uncertain, but Galad grinned at him in assurance as he moved his finger slowly about the cavity, back and forth. If he could remember right, there should be something right about—

 

Gawyn gasped, then released a short, high moan, his hand reaching for his own length. _Found it_ , Galad thought, and he rubbed lightly at the strange, round-ish mass. Gawyn moaned again, an involuntary smile curling his lips. The spot Galad had found, as he remembered, was not deep within Gawyn’s ass, but _forward_ , just beneath the base of his manhood. Galad massaged it gently, fearing to overstimulate but wanting to do more that tease.

 

Gawyn sat nearly straight atop Galad now, his legs still straddling his shoulders, and Galad felt the sticky web of pre-release as his cock sat on his chest. Galad’s own manhood rested against his abdomen, coming just past his navel, its head slick with arousal. But Galad was in no position to stimulate either member, instead focusing his attention on Gawyn’s hole.

 

Removing his finger, Galad moistened a second before slowly slipping them both in. Gawyn—who’d briefly reacted to the loss—sighed in content, his body now used to the pleasure. Galad reached deep, wiggling his fingers to spread the entrance, and touched that spot again, just lightly brushing against it. Gawyn let out a moan, biting his lip in an almost-smile. Galad regarded him from his low vantage: his perfect ass, two firm, round muscles beneath his hips; his strong back, well muscled, glistening with sweat; his hair, glittering golden ringlets in the sunlight; his face, eyes closed, fighting a smile and yet relaxed in ecstasy. He rocked against Galad’s fingers, beautiful.

 

Galad pressed against that spot within Gawyn, breaking the man’s concentration and forcing a moan. Gawyn almost collapsed atop Galad, his hand supporting himself on the ground as he leaned forward. Galad withdrew his fingers, shifting Gawyn’s legs so the man sat beside him rather than atop.

 

Gawyn looked at him, confused, then seemed to understand as Galad slowly stroked his own length. He thought he’d find that reluctance, that insecurity in his brother’s eyes, but when Gawyn looked from Galad’s manhood to his face, there was only the twinkle of excitement. Galad reached forward to kiss him, a more insistent kiss than before but still slow, a battle of tongues rather than lips. Forcing Gawyn to the ground, he probed his mouth as he’d probed his hole, teasing and exploring. Gawyn’s own tongue fought back, joining the dance.

 

Galad lifted from their kiss, gently caressing Gawyn’s face before reaching between his legs. He took both their shafts in hand, massaging them equally, feeling his brother’s length against him. Gawyn’s eyes closed and he released a breath of ecstasy. Galad slowed and then stopped, taking his own manhood and lowering it. Gawyn looked up at him—their faces were still rather close—and nodded, his arms wrapped around Galad’s shoulders. Gawyn’s legs rose, bent and spread wide, and he clung to Galad as he placed the head of his shaft at Gawyn’s hole.

 

Galad’s length was still slick with his brother’s spit and the beginnings of his own release, and Gawyn’s hole was loosened and moistened by Galad’s earlier efforts. He paused with his tip at Gawyn’s hole, feeling the entrance almost draw him in. He leaned down to kiss Gawyn, a deep, true kiss. Then he slowly pushed forward, never breaking contact.

 

Gawyn groaned against his lips—in pain, Galad knew. From his own limited memory, the pain came first. Slowly he drove himself forward, soon passing a point where the resistance stopped. Gawyn seemed to relax, not pained, but not comfortable either. He shifted beneath Galad, trying to loosen himself and invite the rest of Galad’s length.

 

Eventually Galad fit his whole member, and paused for a moment, finally breaking their kiss. His hips were flush with Gawyn’s ass, and they clung to each other, connected in so many ways. Gawyn’s eyes shown with desire, with determination, with happiness. Galad began to slowly rock backwards, his own shaft feeling sensitive within the other man’s tightness. He did not withdraw all the way, fearing to meet that resistance at the entrance and pain his brother. Instead, he began to move forward again at that middling place where the resistance ended.

 

Slowly he rocked again, back and forth, and eventually Gawyn’s face showed signs of relief and of pleasure. He smiled up at Galad, his arms loosening their grip, but still he held to him. Confident that he wouldn’t hurt the other man, Galad began to increase his pace, still fearing to withdraw completely lest he meet that resistance again. The resistance felt good, for Galad, but he knew it was uncomfortable for Gawyn. The depths of the other man were just as enticing.

 

Galad moved, rolling his hips to rock himself forward rather than mechanically thrusting back and forth. Each motion brought him down to the hilt, eliciting near-constant moans from Gawyn. Galad felt pure, a force of nature, the curve of his ass mimicking ocean waves as his hips rolled back and forth. Gawyn released him with one arm, reaching between them to where his own erection was stiff, stroking it as Galad pushed into him.

 

Their breath came heavy, Galad’s thick with low groans, Gawyn’s punctuated by sharp yelps of pleasure. Galad kissed Gawyn again, closing the gap between them and rubbing against Gawyn’s shaft. They were sticky with sweat, their bodies sheening in the sunlight. Galad lifted his head, regarding his brother’s warm, confident eyes—eyes he’d too rarely worn in life, at least around Galad.

 

He took Gawyn’s shaft in hand, feeling the pressure mounting in his own loins. He was close—he’d have to make sure Gawyn was, too. He shifted his angle, trying to thrust more _up_ than along, searching for that spot beneath Gawyn’s manhood. Gawyn gasped, shuddering, and he knew he’d found it. He maintained that angle and that pace, stroking Gawyn’s shaft in rhythm. Gawyn’s hips bucked, simultaneously trying to impale him further on Galad’s shaft and seek the pleasure of Galad’s hand.

 

Galad’s strokes came faster as his own motions increased, and Gawyn leaned forward to cling to him, his moans sharp and his breath heavy. Their foreheads met, Gawyn sitting on Galad’s thighs as he was thrust into. “Galad,” his brother sighed between moans. “I’m close.” As if to prove his point, he moaned heavily as Galad pressed again against that spot.

 

“Me too,” Galad breathed, barely a whisper. His breath came hard, all his attention focused on his thrusts, his hand matching his pace. He sped up, his need overwhelming any sense of control, and thrust deeper into Gawyn. His length disappeared to the hilt, its head _shoved_ against that spot within Gawyn, and both men cried out, seeing white. Gawyn clung to his brother as he came, thick ropes spurting from his head to coat both men’s chests. Galad’s own release came within Gawyn, his member throbbing against the other man’s tightened hole. He felt his seed spilling from himself, coming out in powerful bursts and leaking from Gawyn. Both men shuddered, their release weakening them.

 

Galad fell to the floor, taking Gawyn with him. His length was still inside the other man, whose entrance was coated with release, leaving Galad’s cock swimming in the slick. Gawyn’s seed covered their chests, sticking between them as Gawyn collapsed against Galad, exhausted. Galad breathed heavily, unable to move within his brother because of his heightened sensitivity.

 

Gawyn lifted his head, looking down at Galad, and smiled. He wiggled his hips slightly, rocking against Galad and eliciting a moan. He leaned down, kissing Galad in a full, satisfied kiss. Galad embraced him, bringing them ever closer together as their lips locked. Finally he was able to withdraw from Gawyn, but slowly, his shaft still twitching. He immediately felt his seed spill from the other man, leaking slowly from his entrance.

 

Gawyn rose, breathing heavily. He stood up, looking down at Galad. Each full breath swelled his chest, highlighting the muscles there and emphasizing the seed that covered him. Gawyn looked like a carved statue as he smiled down at Galad, perfect muscles sculpted from his arms and legs, his torso neatly divided into hard pockets of flesh. Covered in white, in his own seed, he looked beautiful.

 

“Goodbye, Galad,” he said, that sad wisdom returning to his eyes. “Thank you.” His brother walked away, his manhood swaying between his legs, his body coated in release on both sides. Galad watched as he left the courtyard, taking a piece of Galad with him.

 

He sighed, tears rolling down his face. He did not remember feeling them. He still lay on the ground, his brother’s seed coating him. With that last, majestic image of his brother burned into his mind, Galad drifted to sleep, remembering the man his brother always should have been, but never got the chance to be.


End file.
